This Strange Effect
by Gabby D
Summary: Daryl doesn't trust the new guy. [Different Meeting, S3-4 Prison AU] For TooRational, and the A Very Desus Valentine's 2k18 Gift Exchange.


Daryl doesn't trust the new guy.

He's a decent one, he supposes. Glenn and Maggie found him in one of their 'runs' together, and Daryl doesn't exactly disagrees with their decision to bring him back to the prison with them; he's useful, smart as a whip and a survivor through and through, and he can kick some ass too— Daryl's seen what he can do to walkers without needing any weapons, kicking and jumping around showing off like some goddamn ninja.

So no, that's not his problem with him. Far from it.

The problem is that this 'Jesus' guy, or whatever he likes to be called, just never seems to know when to shut up, always following Daryl around with his never-ending chatter and jokes, smiling sly at him with that look in his eyes like he knows something the hunter doesn't.

Yeah, Daryl doesn't trust that shit at all.

It wouldn't be a problem if he could just ignore the dude, but Jesus seems to always be wherever he goes; quietly reading a book at the library where Daryl sometimes hides away, in the courtyard helping Carol, talking with the others about places to scavenge or even out by the fences training. And worse, Daryl keeps… catching himself looking at him, whether he wants to or not. And even when Jesus isn't there, he always looks around hoping to see long light-brown hair before he can stop himself.

It gets harder and harder to pretend it's just to be sure he's safe from the prick when he keeps being disappointed when he doesn't find him.

Of course, the rest of the community has no problems in accepting him as part of the group; the people originally from Woodbury seems to always need him for one thing or another, taking things up to him like they would with anyone from Daryl's family, uncaring that he came after them and isn't part of the council. His family too, letting Jesus in without seconds thoughts and treating him like an old friend.

Even Carl apparently has some hero-worship thing going on, though he tries to play it cool; asking Jesus to teach him things like he would not long ago ask Daryl about his crossbow and hunting.

It's annoying, to say the least.

So is Carol's teasing smile when she catches him glaring at the guy yet again, as Jesus throws his head back in laughter during a lively conversation with Glenn in the distance; he wonders for maybe a nanosecond what on earth they could be possibly talking about that was just so damn funny.

"What?" Daryl barks, almost daring, but she doesn't say anything, only shakes her head and stays quiet.

But Daryl can still feel her smug aura all the same, like she knows exactly what he's doing and just has decided to not comment on it, the damn nosy woman. Which she doesn't, not at all— he barely knows it himself.

All he knows is that the prick pisses him off, and Daryl just can't seem to look away.

He doesn't tell her any of that, though; doesn't say anything else. And by the looks of it, he doesn't even need to. Carol looks at where someone else has now apparently joined Jesus and Glenn in their talk and then back at him, with a smile still on her face.

"Maybe you should just talk to him, you know," she says, as sweet as only she could fake.

"Who?" Daryl asks as if he didn't know already, though his bullshit doesn't even faze her, who knows him far too well for that; Carol just waits patiently until he gives up and answers: "I just don't like that Jesus guy, that's all. Don't got nothing to talk to him."

Carol tuts, doing a shit job at hiding her amusement. "Of course," she agrees cryptically, before squeezing his arm for a few seconds and walking away without saying anything else, as if he was just supposed to know what the fuck that was all about.

In the distance Jesus lock eyes with him and smiles.

Annoying, all of them. He means that.

...

Going outside the gates with Jesus was never exactly in Daryl's plans. Actually, scratch that, it wasn't in his plans at all. Ever. But life obviously doesn't seem to care about that— neither does Daryl's family really, who keeps hinting the two of them would make a good team even though he already has a partner he usually goes with, Michonne, and they work just fine together. They get each other.

But no, apparently Jesus has been asking to go on runs recently, wanting to be useful for the community now that he's a part of it, and since he's too used to doing it solo after being alone for so long he refuses to pair up. Says he's better that way, even though it's riskier.

And, somehow, that falls on Daryl. _How_, he can't be sure.

"Please, Daryl?" Maggie asks, and he can hear the worry in her voice. Are they talking about the same person? Daryl's seen him kill a walker with only one kick and nothing else, clearly he can handle himself. "Jesus needs someone to watch his back."

Daryl doesn't bother pointing out that the two of them aren't exactly friends, nor that he's avoided Jesus like he's the plague ever since the other joined them— he knows those two far too well to think that would do him any good and it's nothing they don't know already, they've been here since day one and seen the two interacting. And, just like Carol, they're not fooled by his bullshit.

"Why does it gotta be me, though?" he asks instead. "I barely know the guy."

She shakes her head. "He won't say no if it's you going with him."

"He'll end up going alone, Daryl," Glenn says to him, as if he's the unreasonable one here. "Jesus can be just as stubborn as you when it comes to it, and you know how dangerous it is. No matter how capable someone is, it only takes one mistake."

It's completely unfair, really, those two ganging up on him like this. He should say no on principle.

"Trust us?"

Of course, Daryl ends up agreeing anyway.

…

That's not to say, however, that he's happy about it. Daryl spends most of the drive there in silence, ignoring the chatterbox at his side as he goes on and on about… the book that he was reading Before? Who knows with him. But Jesus has been talking about it for the past couple of minutes or so, not caring that he barely gets any responses out of Daryl as he tells him about wizards and a magic mirror, of all things.

Not that he's listening.

"And anyway, I'm glad there's a library here. Not that there's much in it but it's still something, you know? Enough to pass time at least," Jesus keeps babbling, before looking back at the map and telling him to turn left. "Were you a reader?" he throws the question at him.

"Nah," Daryl lies.

Because besides what everyone thinks about him, Daryl does like reading, he always has; give him a book and he's good for hours and hours, lost in the worlds it takes him. So did Merle, as a matter of fact. His brother used to love a good book and always knew the bible like the palm of his hands. Whenever he wasn't coked out more times than not Daryl would find him with a book in hands squinting at it, the blind fucker.

Thinking about Merle still leaves a gaping void in him however, so he shakes that thought off back to wherever it came from.

So yeah, Daryl likes reading. He just never really found a lot of free time laying around to do it and didn't like most of the shit that was popular before the world ended, but he's always loved the sensation of having a book in his hands and going through the pages.

Jesus shrugs. "That's a shame," he says, and there's no judgement in his voice, nothing that indicated that he'd already expected it.

Daryl almost regrets lying.

"My books are the thing I miss the most from the old world," Jesus tells him, voice full of longing as he speaks. "God, how I miss it. I used to have this huge collection, borderlining on hoarding really, but I knew exactly where each book was."

He laughs when Daryl turns to give him a skeptical look.

"What? I did! No matter what everyone else said, they _were_ organized," he defends, "even if not conventionally."

Daryl shakes his head; he's seen what the other has done to his cell, with all the books he's 'borrowed' from the prison's library. If his house used to be anything like it then organized isn't something he'd call it. A fire hazard, maybe. But organized?

"And you, what do you miss the most?"

His brother.

He misses Merle more than he could miss anything else in the world, even as in the same breath he's glad he's gone, too. But he still misses him, misses all the good bits of his brother. Daryl misses the brother that taught him how to hunt, how to shoot and how to skin. He misses the laughter, the drinking together until the sun was up in the sky, the teasing as the two rough-housed together.

Daryl misses how each birthday after he made fourteen and Merle came out of his first jail time, his brother would take him to a fast food nearby, the only place still open so late at night and that they could afford. Merle never let it go forgotten.

Even after Daryl was already a grown ass man they still kept the tradition, whenever they could.

Merle would take him for a night out drinking, just the two of them against the world, then right after that—

"McDonald's," Daryl answers after the silence had gone for a while, and doesn't expand on it.

The other stares at him surprised for a second then snorts. "Can't say I saw that one coming," Jesus says, good-humoured, "Mr. squirrel-is-good-for-you. But honestly, now you're making me miss it too. I could go for a Big Mac right now."

So could Daryl really, he can't even remember the last time he had a burger.

"I would'a pegged you as a vegetarian," he teases before he can help himself, though it's true, "or some other hippy shit like that."

"Me? Never. Well, I tried once actually, but it didn't work out."

"Yeah?"

Jesus nods, smiling. "Yeah. Turns out I liked meat too much for that."

The answer makes Daryl huffs amused. He doesn't know what he had expected.

"Too late for that, anyhow," Daryl points out, truthfully. Nowadays to come across any food at all was luck, and there was no space for nitpicking when survival was at risk. Nothing like starving to make the shittiest of foods a feast.

Crap, now he's hungry.

Daryl can see from the corner of his eye when Jesus opens his mouth to answer him, but whatever it was he was going to say is cut short when the car turns around and their objective comes into view. Still intact just like Glenn said it would be. They share a look and nod, stepping out of the car once it's parked in place and getting into action as walkers stumble in their direction, getting rid of one by one in silent movements before going to the door.

He tries to open it a couple of times to no avail before cursing in frustration. "This shit is locked."

Someone must've locked it after everything turned into chaos, maybe locking themselves in for safety or despair. Daryl tries and think about the chances of a backdoor or a window or maybe even breaking the damn glass without calling too much attention, before Jesus looks at him like he'd expected it already and trades places with him.

"Let me try it," Jesus tells him, and Daryl almost gets offended at the useless suggestion before he sees the other crouch down and take something out of his pockets— lockpicks. The sneaky little shit has _lockpicks_.

He really had planned this out.

Daryl stares at him in disbelief as Jesus works, not knowing how to react. It only takes a couple of seconds before a loud click can be heard and the door opens with an ease, almost as if to mock him.

Jesus turns to him, smugness all over his face as he shows off. "Voilà."

"Where the hell did you even learn how to do that?" Daryl asks without meaning to, going inside with flashlight and knife in hands. "That's useful."

With only a quick gesture Daryl sends each one to go check out a different direction, wanting to make sure there's no remaining walkers inside the building still before they can scavenge in peace; whoever locked that door might still be inside. Jesus follows his directions with only a curt nod, seriousness in his eyes even as his words are anything but.

"Why, Daryl, are you curious?" teases Jesus from where he is, and that's not really an answer. "But I don't know if I should tell you… I have to keep some mysteries for myself, after all. Keep you guessing."

As if.

Daryl rolls his eyes at the deflection, and leaves it at that.

"Whatever."

The first section of the building is clean when he checks it out, aside from one door that was impossible to force open and would be more trouble than it's worth, and he takes note of where everything is to try and map out the floor plan. There's not much of a list of things to bring back other than anything that may be of worth and that's not exactly hard to find in a sports store, which is full of clothes and possible white weapons, but still Daryl tries to make a mental list of items sorted through relevancy. It's good to keep that shit in mind.

Suddenly he's glad they had taken the car instead of his first suggestion.

The second and third section are also clean though it's clear somebody was holing up in here before. The dust suggests it's been a while though, and Daryl doubts that ended in a happy ending. The thought leaves him bitter even though for all it's worth he should be used to that by now, to the reality of the new world; always finding nothing but corpses and traces of what once was.

How depressing.

Daryl goes back to the start where he'd meet Jesus again and waits for the man, this time not stopping himself from grabbing smaller items that can be of use and shoving them on his backpack, and it doesn't take long for Jesus to join him, slightly out of breath and smiling wildly as he waves something in his hands.

"The left side is clean, I've checked everything," he tells him without needing to be prompted, "Also! Guess what I found for you?" Jesus asks, and Daryl soon recognizes what he's holding: crossbow bolts.

Fuckin' ace.

Daryl grabs the bolts, nodding in thanks for the find. "This side's clean too. There's nobody here, dead or otherwise." He hesitates for a second before completing: "Though someone was holing up in here, before. Figure it's who locked the damn doors."

If he hadn't been paying attention, Daryl almost wouldn't have seen the grimace that quickly took place in Jesus' face before being replaced by his usual calm mask. He hadn't hoped for otherwise per se, he knows this world too well to, but it's still depressing to be shown right in his pessimism nowadays. Just once it would be nice to be wrong.

"Yeah, I… I found her," Jesus says, confirming what he already know. "She was alone here. Found her gun as well, but no bullets or food."

"Walker?" he guesses, but the other just shakes his head.

"Right through the brain. I guess she didn't want to become one of them."

_At least she was smart enough to do it right_, Daryl thinks rather crass. Most folks who took the easy way out ended up exactly how they most dreaded: with white in their eyes, lost to the world. He doesn't voice it though, not like he would with someone else— something about Jesus' voice, detached like they're all slowly becoming about death yet still so filled with sadness, stops him from doing so.

The silence stays as they loot the store together, only sharing a few words as they determine what to take and what will stay, where each item will go, and it's… alright. Better than he's expected, that's for sure, but it's still all in all a run like any other— ordinary, boring, and the new routine for all of them. It takes a while to get everything they want and be over with it, storing most of the items that couldn't fit in their backpacks inside the beat-up car before coming back for more.

For all that inside was peaceful, however, the second the hunter steps outside for good he's suddenly jumped.

Daryl turns around just in time to escape the walker that sneaked up on him. Shit, that was too close. He looks at the once-human creature, his knife in hands and ready to take it out, and he only hesitates for a slip second— just enough to see it die from impact as Jesus takes impulse in the nearest wall, twists and kicks it in the head in a movement that really couldn't have been the most practical way to kill the thing, no matter how cool it looked.

And it looked so fuckin' cool.

Daryl gapes at him, stunned, until he's able to school his face back to normal and anger takes control over the awe. "_You—!_"

"What?"

"I could've killed the damn thing m'self," spats Daryl, accent thick and more than just pissed off. "I would'a done it."

Jesus shrugs. "Of course, but I was faster," he says, clearly not understanding why the sudden anger.

Daryl doesn't understand much himself, really, but something about the man not trusting him cuts deep and the heavy mood from before surely doesn't help. He's never taken kindly to people doing things for him; Daryl isn't someone that needs _rescue, _he didn't need helpand how fuckin' dare Jesus assume he couldn't take the damn thing down himself.

"I can handle my own shit," Daryl ends up saying, anger still in his voice but far more quieter now.

There's a second or two where Jesus just stares at him, as if trying to read him, then he just nods. "I know that, Daryl, I never doubted that you're capable. I know you are. It's not that you needed my help, I didn't mean to offend you or make you think you did, but you're not alone. We're in this together. I have your back," Jesus' voice is nothing but serious as he says it. "Just like I trust you to have mine."

That makes him stop, not knowing how to react, and Daryl instantly regrets doubting the man and being so quick to anger; his temper is a trait he shares with every Dixon man in history. There's just something about Jesus that he can't explain that always manages to get to him.

He doesn't apologize, doesn't back down at all— instead he just nods seriously and says, though it's clear he's far more touched than his words would otherwise imply: "What, is this Harry Potter all of a sudden? We best friends now, just us against the world?" he jokes, trying to shift the focus to something less personal. "'Course I do, man, don't need to be saying it."

Jesus smiles at him, relieved, before it turns into a look of pure satisfaction.

"I knew you were listening to me, I just knew it!"

Daryl doesn't tell him he's read the books before, even if he didn't spend time analyzing every little thing like the other clearly had and just enjoyed the damn story as it was, so he just huffs and starts moving back to the car, ignoring him. Jesus takes that as an opening to start a new rant about the differences between the books and the movies, which Daryl hasn't watched, and the horrible mistakes made by the latter.

"_I got your back."_

So maybe the prick really isn't that bad after all, even if he had been clearly just showing off.

...

Later at the car almost half way back home Jesus breaks the comfortable silence that had installed between them and mentions leaving the prison gates together again someday. He mentions it like it's no big deal, as casual as it can be, but Daryl can see he means it. Jesus asks him about hunting, about tracking, and the differences between each animal.

He asks if he'd think about teaching him some of it one day.

Something inside of Daryl— a small part of him— screams for him to say no, to stay away as far as he can from Jesus and not look behind, to ignore it all. It sounds, weirdly, like Merle; like his brother who would always tell him to stay away from some people, tell him not to look too closely and remind him of his place.

_Ain't nobody ever gonna care about you but me, baby brother._

But Merle isn't here, not anymore, and in a sudden moment of defiance against his brother Daryl just shrugs and agrees.

"Why not?" he says to the other.

Daryl barely has time to regret his impulse before Jesus smiles, a big and genuine smile, and starts talking about how he can teach him how to pick locks in return too, or maybe even some self-defense, even though the hunter finds none of that necessary.

Maybe it won't be so terrible, as long as he doesn't overthink it too much.

...

He does such a great job of not overthinking it that when the night turns into day and Daryl is still awake in his cell, never once he stops to think about Jesus. He doesn't relive yesterday, nor does he think about cocky grins and kickass moves, and what today might imply.

Doesn't think about that at all.

Instead he starts to prepare for the day out hunting and gives himself a quick whore's bath, telling himself that if the day wasn't hotter than a blue blazes he wouldn't otherwise bother to and that's the only reasoning behind it, and tries his best to keep his mind as empty as many believed it always is. And it works, too.

Works so well he doesn't hear Jesus sneaking up on him.

"Daryl?" Jesus calls, and the hunter takes pride in the fact that he didn't jump.

Though really, that should barely surprise him anymore; the man's as light on his feet as a thief. Daryl wouldn't believe he was there at all if he couldn't see him from the corner of his eyes, not even bothering to knock as he enters the cell. He continues what he was doing as if he hadn't seen him, reaching for one of the shirts Carol washed for him and putting it on without second thoughts.

"Thought you'd be up already— oh."

Daryl freezes, realizing the reason behind the pause. Shit.

His back.

He'd been too used to his family, who all knew about it but never questioned, never said anything, as the life on the run together meant they always were up in each other's ass even without meaning to. He didn't even think, didn't even remember.

Jesus was never supposed to see it.

Daryl knows what they look like, ugly and smeared across his back, a living proof of the kind of life he used to have. He knows it ain't pretty and he knows what people think when they see it. Christ, he barely likes looking at it himself. People seeing his scars means questions will soon follow; uncomfortable, nosy fuckin' questions that Daryl hates and if up to him will never have to answer. And of course Jesus will ask them— will try to pry into what's none of his business as he always does.

He waits for the intruding questions with dread filling his bones, already resenting what's to come. Daryl pulls the shirt down and grabs his vest for an extra layer between himself and the other man, not caring that his movements are stiff and far too fast to be anywhere near casual. All subtle forgotten.

But neither of them come, and instead Jesus cleans his throat and asks: "So what's the plan for today, Dixon?"

What. "What?"

Jesus stares at him, seemingly unfazed.

"I asked what's the plan— remember, tracking classes?" he says, raising an eyebrow as if he didn't know exactly why Daryl was so taken back right now. "You said we'd do it today."

"I do, but— my back, you're not going to…?"

"What? It's none of my business; I know you didn't mean for me to see it," Jesus answers, and that's not far from the truth; if Daryl could take it back Jesus would've never seen it. He doesn't mind his family so much anymore, the apocalypse rarely gives you that privacy, but that doesn't mean he _likes_ it. "Besides, do you think those are the first scars I've seen?"

Before Daryl can say anything else Jesus plops down uncaring on his cheap mattress, lifting up the right leg of his pants and displaying an angry mark scarred into his ankle there; it doesn't take more than a second for him to realize it's a bite-mark.

"What—?"

"Dog bite. Was trying to loot a house for food and didn't think to check under the kitchen table, the dog almost scared ten years off of me. It didn't bark when I got in so I didn't know it was there. Didn't expect it. It could've been worse though, could've been a walker, so I'm glad for that." Jesus lets go of it, pulling up one of his sleeves now, his voice still as casual as it can be. "Stupid accident from Before. Was doing parkour, ended up slipping and having to decide between crashing into a window or a three floors fall. I went with the first of course but my arm ended up caught on the glass. Stupid."

Daryl doesn't say anything, not wanting to interrupt the man, but he still can't help but imagine a younger Jesus trying to do the same dumb ninja tricks that today help him survive. It's almost enough to make him smile.

Almost.

Jesus gets quiet for a bit before pulling down his collar, showing half of his shoulder and the ugly scar there. "When I was fifteen some kids from my group home jumped me because they didn't like the fact that I am gay. I could've stopped them, I was smaller but I knew how to fight, but I thought… I thought it wouldn't be worth it, you know? Kicking their asses. I would've just gotten into worse trouble since I knew martial arts and they didn't, and I already got into way too much trouble on my own. So I didn't take them seriously. They broke my shoulder in three different places and I needed surgery."

"You were just a kid," Daryl says, before he can process the words _group home_ and _gay. _He tells himself he shouldn't— doesn't care.

"So were they." Jesus shrugs. "At least after that they left me alone."

He lifts up his shirt showing one last scar and Daryl tries to convince his heart that there's no reason to race at the sight of the man's pale skin, focusing on the oddly-shaped mark there instead. It works, but just barely so.

"Car accident when I was thirteen," he tells Daryl. "Don't wanna talk about it though."

There's a sigh, and Jesus lets go of his shirt and looks at him in the eyes.

"I've seen scars like yours before, back at the group home. There were a lot of kids there with scars like these. I won't ask you about it, Daryl."_ I understand what they mean_, was left unsaid, though Daryl still hears it all the same. "But it's nothing to be ashamed of. We all got our scars, even more now."

There's something about Jesus' words— about the casualness of his act while still taking his scars seriously— that gets to him, making something inside of his chest unknot and warm up, the rest of his anxiety slowly dripping away with it; a feeling Daryl doesn't wanna face yet, but has known was there for far too long now.

He just nods, dumbly, not knowing what else to do.

"What about this one?" Daryl asks, surprising both the other and himself. He points half-heartedly at the small scar near Jesus' jaw and prays it's a good one to help lighten up the mood. "How did you get it, troublemaker?"

Jesus touches it lightly, smiling. "Heroic battle against a doorknob when I was seven. I'd like to say I was victorious, but..."

Daryl snorts, shaking his head amused and making the other smile even wider. They're silent for a second or two, smiling at each other, before Daryl looks down and takes a deep breath, readying himself to speak and trying to gain courage.

"It was my dad," he says, voice barely a whisper.

"Daryl, no. You don't have to tell me," Jesus assures him, not unkindly, "I didn't tell you mine so you'd share yours, it's ok."

"I want to." That's a lie, he'd rather pull out a tooth than talk about it, but it feels right to. "Sometimes with whatever was closest to him but he used his belt more than anything." Daryl looks down, trying to swallow the shame. "Did it to my brother too, but he left as soon as he could."

_Unlike me. _

Daryl was never able to leave— he'd thought about it time after time, but he never could do it. It was all he had, the only connection to Merle. He didn't even fight back until his father was too old to hit him hard enough to stay down and Daryl just pushed him off and walked away, simple like that. Still shaking to his core yet finally seeing his father for who he was: a pathetic old man.

"To our ma, before us."

He remembers the bruises she tried so hard to hide with long-sleeves and hard make-up, he remembers the fights and the yelling. Daryl remembers holding tight on his mama's skirt as she promised him again and again that she was fine even as blood dropped from her face.

Until everything went up in flames, and she was no more.

Jesus pays attention to every word, no trace of pity on his face yet still so caring, taking it seriously. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Not your fault," he dismisses with a shrug.

"It wasn't yours either," Jesus insists, but he seems to be able to tell Daryl didn't want to get into_ that_ bit. "Thank you for telling me, Daryl," he says instead. "I mean it, I know it wasn't easy to do. I apologize for walking in without knocking."

"It's alright."

"It means a lot to me that you trusted me with this, you know."

Daryl just nods, not knowing what else to do when faced with such sincerity and openness. He can't understand why it'd mean so much to Jesus to hear about how he used to be a coward and that Will Dixon was a piece of shit, just like he can't understand why his family wants him around, either, but they do. It did.

Jesus, for as ridiculous as it sounds, _cares_.

And he knows Jesus' own gesture wasn't empty either; though he's friendly with everyone else, Daryl's rarely seen him actually talk about himself before. He's likely told Maggie a thing or two, those two seem to be fast friends and always glued to each other whenever she's not with Glenn, but to actually tell something like that? The man's as private as Daryl himself.

Jesus trusts him, too, and Daryl's not sure what exactly he should do with that information.

"I mean really, I was starting to get the impression that you didn't like me, Dixon," Jesus jokes."But now I know better than that."

He huffs. "I _don't_."

"Sure, sure, I'll pretend I believe you." The other laughs, winking at Daryl playfully. "It will be our little secret."

"Fuck off."

"But seriously…"

"Nah. You're a little shit, but you're good people," Daryl tells him, honest. "Knew it from the start, and so did Glenn and Maggie. That's why they brought you back here. Trusting you was never an issue."

_But your pretty face and smile were._

"You can even be funny... sometimes," he jokes, ignoring his own thoughts.

That gets him a gasp as Jesus puts his hands on his chest and feigns being touched by his words, the little shit. Daryl isn't utterly endeared by that, not even a little bit. "Wow, coming from you that's high-praise indeed, thank you."

Daryl just nods, trying to stop and hide his own forming smile with a casual shrug. Somehow Jesus isn't fooled by it.

"Don't let it get to your head."

Jesus tucks his hair behind his ear and smiles, a real and sincere smile that reaches his eyes and_ fuck_, they're blue and pretty and looking at him. "Thanks, Daryl," he says, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice this time. "I mean it."

Maybe this is where Daryl should say something— something as equally meaningful to match the other's open sincerity, to let him know how he feels and how thankful he is, instead of letting the moment go. Or maybe he should finally, finally, admit why Jesus always got to him, the real reason as to why his mere presence pisses him off and what it wouldn't let him forget; what his family already knows and accepts, and only waits for him to say.

But that kind of talk was never his thing.

Instead he says, teasing: "You ain't so bad, you know, for someone that calls himself _Jesus_."

Jesus laughs, openly and heartedly, not having expected that. Daryl takes pride in surprising the man and making him laugh.

"You know… you can call me Paul, if you want," he offers, in a voice so different from before— it's quieter, softer, but there's something else behind it, too, that Daryl can't seem to read. "I don't mind."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Paul. That… that fits him, even more than Jesus did.

Daryl can work with that.

"So!" J— _Paul_ claps and cleans his throat, getting up from the bed and finally breaking away the heavy silence that had installed between them, letting the moment pass. When had they gotten that close? "Tracking?"

...

Their time together out in the woods feels different somehow, more intimate maybe, than their run at the sports store. They now talk without pretenses under the scalding hot Georgian sun, a newfound harmony between the two. Maybe it's because he's actually trying from the start this time around, giving Paul pointers and helping him track down tonight's dinner, instead of acting like a dick for no reason at all and being closed off.

It's something else, too, seeing the other out here— in Daryl's natural habitat, the place where he feels the most like himself— now that he's finally paying attention, watching him as Paul focuses so hard on learning and trying to track.

And he can't help but watch.

Paul is a great learner, even with his initial non-stop witty remarks, and he takes the tracking lessons with a discipline and focus Daryl wouldn't otherwise know he has. He already knows how to look out for human signs well enough on his own, though that's not surprising after surviving so long alone, but Paul takes on tracking animals with almost the same ease as he would pick a lock or kick someone down— with no hesitation, confident on his own skill and trusting Daryl's words with no second thoughts.

Daryl's not sure if he's proud or impressed.

He wonders for a fleeting moment if he should teach the other how to use his crossbow, wondering what it'd look like in his hands and if Paul would have the same concentrated look in his eyes he has now. Daryl shakes the thought off as quickly as it came though, ignoring the sudden breathlessness at the mental image that he refuses to admit as attraction.

_Just because he's gay doesn't mean he likes you_, Daryl reminds himself bitterly, and ignores the ache in his heart.

Thankfully, Paul notices none of that, too busy with his work.

Daryl tries to focus on pointing out the signs most animals leave behind and how to know the differences between them, when it's fresh and worth checking, where they point out to. Paul does all the work of tracking down the animal, with no kiddies gloves, as he watches from behind.

Until they actually do find the buck, and then it's Daryl's turn to do the job; crouching down and sneaking up closer to his prey until he's got a good enough position to get his shot. It's routine to him—_ this_ is. Hunting, taking a deep breath with his bow in hands and a target in front of him. There's no thought process behind it, no need to, as he lets trained skill and familiarity take care of everything.

It only takes one arrow and the animal is dead on the ground, not far away from them.

He must look something ridiculous, like that. Daryl's never really thought or cared about it before, whatever got him food, but now he can't help but be a bit self-conscious, for some reason. Maybe because he can feel Paul's eyes on him, watching his every move. Except when he turns back and Paul is indeed watching him, seemingly lost in thoughts, he's not laughing or getting a sarcastic comment ready. Nothing like that, no.

Instead the look in his eyes make Daryl stop in his tracks, suddenly flustered.

Oh.

"I had never seen you actually hunting before," Paul says to him, trying to play for nonchalant. "I knew you were good, but…"

Daryl's chest swells with pride at the casual compliment, and he's sure he can feel his cheeks burn.

"What, did it offend your cityboy's sensibilities?" he asks mocking, misunderstanding it on purpose, though he knows that's not it. There's no mistaking the heat in Paul's eyes and what it means.

He just doesn't know what to do with that.

Paul snorts, looking as if he knew what Daryl was doing but have decided against pointing it out. "Yeah, sure. Something like that," he says ambiguous, and changes the subject. "You have to teach me that someday though. It's an useful skill to have, and you're a good teacher."

"Maybe," Daryl agrees easy enough, and avoids thinking again about Paul with a crossbow. "You ever hunt before?"

"Well, after the world ended I managed to catch myself a rabbit or two with traps, not long before I found Maggie and Glenn. It was mostly luck though." There's a shrug, and Paul pokes the dead buck feigning interest. "So no, not really."

"Seems good enough to me."

"Enough to not starve, I suppose," Paul says with a nod.

Daryl remembers the winter before the prison— the despair, the cold, when most thought they wouldn't be able to make it and with so little food for all of them, when they were lucky to find any at all. "That's all we can hope for these days."

They walk in comfortable silence back to the prison with a buck around Daryl's shoulders, having been lucky enough to not need to go far and with only a few walkers now that they've left on foot instead of taking a car. He can feel Paul sometimes sneaking glances at him, barely trying for subtle, and stops himself from doing the same focusing instead on the familiar path. And it's not long before they're back home, red and sweaty from the sun but carrying enough meat to call it good.

Daryl's disappointed to see it's not Carol out in the courtyard today, instead an older lady from Woodbury that sometimes helped around whose name he never bothered to remember. If there was ever a time he needed her more…

"Got us dinner," he tells her easy enough, and in her defense she manages to somewhat hide her grimace when Daryl hands her the dead buck without ceremony. "Just gotta skin it and it's good to go."

She nods, her smile turning from stiff to genuine in seconds at his words. "Oh Mr. Dixon, Jesus, you two are godsent!"

"Ah, but I'm afraid Daryl here did all the work, Mrs. Santiago," Paul says, because of course he knows the woman's name, _of course. _"He taught me how to track it down but I didn't really do much… this time."

_This time?_

"Except spook away the damn game with your chatter, you mean?" he teases, though it's as far from the truth as it can be.

Jesus chuckles. "Whatever you say, Daryl. Whatever you say."

The woman— Mrs. Santiago— rolls her eyes at them, clearly amused with their banter, and shoos the two away informing them of their dirty state; the both of them are smelling something awful. Daryl's never really cared for it before but it's clear the other does from the face he makes at the statement and the clean state he always keeps himself at whenever possible ever since he's joined the group.

He turns to Daryl. "Well, I think this is it for today. I _really _need to hit the showers," Paul says with an easy smile, humor clear in his voice as he moves his eyebrows teasing. "Will you be joining me?" he flirts.

It couldn't be more obviously a joke and yet Daryl still flusters madly, glaring at him.

"_Nah._"

"That's too bad." Paul shrugs, already having expected that. "Thank you for today, Daryl. I must admit it was more fun than I expected."

Daryl nods. "You did good out there," he says honestly. "Didn't need me at all."

It's nothing the man doesn't know, but it still feels right to tell him— even more after he dismissed his own hard work earlier. If he tried, Paul could've easily learned most of it by himself, he's quick enough to do it. All the rest would come with patience and practice.

"Ah, but I digress."

"Don't sell yourself short," Daryl tells him, before he could stop himself.

"Three compliments in one day," the other points out, playfulness in his eyes. "Why, today must be my birthday!"

He shakes his head, amused and unable to hide his own grin. "Don't get too used to it."

"Too late! I now expect at least one compliment per day, and don't you forget it."

"Now you're just pissin' on my generosity," Daryl teases back in mock-exasperation, glaring half-heartedly at the other and making him smile and chuckle. "I regret saying anything at all, you prick."

Paul laughs.

"I will see you later, then," he says, though he lingers there for a while, smiling at Daryl.

And Daryl smiles back.

…

He knew Paul had become close to the Greene family— the man could always be found helping Hershel around, or glued to Maggie's hips and smiling like twins. But Daryl had no idea just how close until now, after everyone was done with dinner and went on their ways, and he sits near the fire next to the youngest Greene; voices barely audible from where Daryl watches them in a secluded corner in the courtyard.

And he watches, almost in daze, as Paul and Beth quietly sing to each other away from the public's eyes.

Paul's voice is nowhere as sweet as the teenager girl's, but still it's soft and beautiful as it echoes in Daryl's ear like a wave of warmth that hugs him inside. He shouldn't be listening in; this isn't for him, the sad ballad they've both chosen to sing. But...

But he can't look away.

And, for the first time, nor does he want to.

So Daryl keeps watching enthralled, unable to do otherwise, with a soft smile in face as he loses himself to the quiet song and sight.

…

Daryl isn't blind. He may not be… _experienced_ in these kinds of thing, and sure, he's had his fair share of trying to ignore inconvenient thoughts until hopefully they go away, but he knows what they mean. Deep down, he always did.

(He's almost sure his brother knew, too, and just like him chose denial over seeing the truth.)

Daryl knows what the warmth the other leaves inside of him means, and why he never could look away. He knows why Carol would tease him, why Glenn and Maggie would conspire together to send them on a run and why, no matter how infuriated Paul made him by just standing there with that damn charming smile, he never actually told him to fuck off and leave him alone. Never seriously told him to shut up.

He likes to listen to Paul talk, even when it makes him flustered and pissed off.

He likes _Paul_.

Which brings him back to the actual reason why he's freaking out right now: that tormenting look that he just can't forget, the teasing that went a touch more bold today than Paul's usual stunts… It all comes together to one simple explanation, and Daryl does feel blind then for not seeing it before.

So.

Paul's into him.

No matter how much Daryl repeats that little fact to himself it still doesn't feel true, like the universe has decided to play a prank on him and is waiting to see if he falls for it before pulling the rug from under him. It just doesn't make sense, any of it, even when the signs are clear. There's no reason for someone like Paul to even look in his direction, no matter how much the apocalypse left for slim picking; in another life, Daryl's sure he wouldn't.

Pretty face and kind eyes don't go for dirty rednecks from backwoods Georgia.

Yet Paul did, and damn if it isn't just like him to always prove him wrong.

Even when Daryl was an asshole to him for no reason avoiding him with mistrust in his eyes, Paul still seeked out for him all the more with the same smile and never-ending chatter. And he never pushes him too much, either, never expecting anything of him— he never judges.

Always managing to get a reaction out of Daryl and making him smile.

Inside his head voices yell so loudly he could swear they were shouting right by his ear all the things once said to him by his father and by Merle, reminding him of each awful word and slur. It makes him want to hide, to snap, to come up with excuses for everything and pretend to be someone he never was like he's always done his entire life.

But they're not here.

And Paul is. He cares about Daryl, he understands him and is his friend, and he wants him. Wants more.

Fuck, he better not be reading shit wrong and it really be just some cosmic joke to make a fool out of him; Daryl doesn't know what he'd do if it was and the evidences really were nothing else but his own wishful thinking.

Because Daryl wants it, too.

…

"I knocked this time," Paul says from where he's standing leaning against the archway of Daryl's cell, and true enough his knuckles are still touching the bars ever so lightly, though the hunter's not sure if that really counts. "I missed you at dinner tonight."

That'd been on purpose, on Daryl's part. He needed that time apart from the other to think.

Daryl shrugs. "I ate with Carol," he answers nonchalant, and he manages to see a glimpse of… something, in the other's eyes at his words as his entire body language changes, just for those few seconds, before the casual mask is put back in place. Daryl continues as if he hadn't noticed anything. "Saw you after though, but you were busy." At the confused look, Daryl comments: "I didn't know you could sing."

A soft smile appears on Paul's face, and he looks down.

"Barely," he dismisses, as if the same hadn't enthralled Daryl. "Beth has a beautiful voice, doesn't she? It's breathtaking."

_She ain't the only one,_ Daryl doesn't say, but thinks nonetheless.

He nods, not voicing his thoughts. Silence settles between them for a quick moment, where no one knows what to say next, and Daryl refuses to let it lure into a false sense of security— he knows it's just building up for something else, and he's proven right when not long after Paul cleans his throat and looks up at Daryl seriously.

"Were you avoiding me today?" he asks, sounding almost as if hesitant to know the answer, and when Daryl doesn't say anything Paul just sighs. "I thought we were past that, Daryl."

"It's not—" Daryl starts, but he interrupts himself and starts again: "We _are_, Paul," he assures him. "It ain't that."

Maybe Paul takes pity on him, seeing how hard this is for Daryl as words seem to get stuck in his throat and refuse to let go, because he throws him a bone and calmly sits down next to him on the mattress. He seems to believe Daryl's words though, looking a lot more relaxed and reassured now than before. Paul doesn't push, doesn't say anything else— instead he sits there and waits for Daryl to find the words.

"I ain't ever done this before, you know," the hunter ends up saying, so quietly he's surprised Paul even heard.

That makes Paul pause for a second. "Done what, Daryl?"

He hesitates when Daryl gives him a look, as if to say _'what do you think, jackass'. _Realization seems to hit him seconds before Daryl even waves between them— not knowing how to put it into words yet, whatever it was growing between them.

_(You know exactly what it is, don't lie.)_

"Oh," is all the other says.

Daryl shrugs, fighting to not look away. "Never knew how to," he tells, almost ashamed. "Never really wanted to, either."

When a hand suddenly touches his, laying softly on top of his own, Daryl freezes and tightens his expression for a split second before he relaxes under the touch. It's both comforting and terrifying all in one small gesture.

"Have I ever told you about when I met Glenn and Maggie?" Paul asks once the silence had stretched itself thin, and his voice has none of the hurt it did before. "And they brought me to the rest of you?"

Daryl looks at him confused. "I know the story," he says, not sure where this is going but still listening.

He's heard the story before; the couple had briefed the council about Paul the second they came back, vouching for the man. They'd told about the stranger who showed up out of nowhere to help with a small hoard even though he didn't need to and proved himself trustworthy.

Still, Daryl doesn't interrupt.

"I was almost running out of hope, really, of ever finding a group. I had some people with me at the very beginning, but it didn't… well, you know how it goes. It didn't last, and then there was only me. I can't even remember why I changed paths. I just did, no plan in mind."

There's a small, almost sad smile at the memories.

"When I saw Glenn and Maggie I didn't approach them at first, instead I watched. You can learn a lot about someone from how they act when they don't know they're being watched," says Paul in a neutral voice. "They looked like good people. The two joked around and laughed and were very much lovebirds, but they were strong too. Dependable. And they had a community."

Daryl nods, understanding well what the man saw in them. "You helped them."

"I did, yeah," the other agrees. "Not that they needed my help much, they had it under control, but I did. I would've done it regardless."

That's not any shocking news, he knows that already. Anyone who's spent even if just a minute with Paul knows that he'd help a stranger in need without thinking twice about it, risking his own to save someone else's life.

"After we spoke I thought they'd take me here and I would join in, prove myself useful to the group and help around, but that'd be it. Just that. I'd keep everyone at arm's length, like I've done my whole life," Paul says to him, an unreadable emotion in his voice. "I didn't expect any of you. You people are the most mismatched group I've ever seen."

Daryl can't help but snort at the fond remark. They really are; fitting together in ways that shouldn't make sense but just do, a closeness to them that only shared hardship can give. Neither saw it coming but welcome it anyway.

And God, Daryl's grateful to have them.

"But… you're _family_, even though you've met in the middle of this. It was clear how much you mean to each other. How much you love each other." Paul looks at their united hands, breaking eye contact. "And I wanted that. It scared me shitless, but I wanted it," he reveals. "I never had that before— never _really_ wanted to, no matter how lonely I felt. It's easier to be detached so the pain is more bearable later. I could never manage to get close to people; friends, neighbors… boyfriends. I was always ready to bolt."

Paul huffs, almost amused.

"In the end it didn't matter much if I wanted it or not, you people just adopted me anyway."

He looks back at Daryl and they share a look, emotions clear in both of their eyes as they speak without any need for words, and the hunter can see how grateful Paul is, too, for their little misfit family.

"That's how they get to you," Daryl says with humor, squeezing the other's hand softly. "You're family now," he confirms. "You're one of us."

Paul lets out a noise that's somewhere between a laughter and a sob, clearly touched and not having expected it. He squeezes back, looking at their hands again with a smile on his face, and speaks up once again.

"They told me about you, when I got here. Told me about everyone, but they went on and on about the redneck with a heart of gold." He nudges Daryl teasingly when he just reddens at the words. "I knew I had to meet you then. They love you a lot, you know. All of them."

Daryl nods, not knowing what to say.

_I love them too_.

"All of _us_," Paul corrects, deliberately, and…

Daryl can feel his heart jump to his throat, racing and beating wildly inside his chest. He wants to say something, he wants to believe Paul and to know it's true so badly the need physically pains him to think of, but.

"Why."

It's barely a question, but it's all he can muster.

"Because of who you are," comes the answer with no hesitation. "It's hard not to, once knowing you. You just drawpeople to you."

Maybe it's clear from his expression that he doesn't quite know how believe it, self-doubt and years of being told otherwise like poison in his mind stopping him from doing so, because the other continues:

"Daryl, I had my eyes on you from the moment we met," Paul tells him like it's supposed to be obvious, though it makes no sense.

"_You must be Daryl," he remembers the newcomer saying, with a smile that instantly got in Daryl's nerves and a voice that matched; his tone promised nothing good as if there was a secret or dirty joke hidden underneath even though his words were nothing out of ordinary. "Your group told me about you. It's a pleasure to meet you, Daryl." The smile turned into a big grin on his— _annoying_— face as he spread his arms wide. "I'm Jesus."_

That… Daryl realizes belatedly now that Paul had been flirting with him, actually flirting with him, the entire time.

"Oh."

Paul laughs, not unkindly. "Yeah, I suspected you hadn't realized that," he says, sounding so fond and tender that Daryl can't help but redden. "You're hard man to read sometimes, Mr. Dixon, let me tell you."

Well, shit. Daryl had been so quick to take it as mocking, to think the worst and to get frustrated for no longer being able to ignore what he always knew about himself, that he was unable recognize the signs for what it was thinking it was only a game. He sees now why Rick always told him he has huge chip on his shoulder.

"It's alright though," Paul says with the same glint of mischief in his eyes that first landed Daryl in trouble. "It's part of your charm."

Paul's smile— bright and happy and reaching his eyes— is so contagious that Daryl can't help but smile back. He tries to remind himself there's no reason to be nervous, that this is _Paul_. Annoying and charming Paul, who's a prick and a dork and just so loyal. With his fortune-cookie phrases and speeches that Daryl refuses to admit that get to him.

He can do this.

"Oh, is it now?" Daryl teases back.

Daryl doesn't know when their faces got so close to each other, almost near enough to touch, and he can hear his own heartbeat going crazy in his ears with where this is going. He can't find it in him to stop though, or to even want to. Quite the opposite.

His eyes are drawn to Paul's mouth without his permission when the man licks his own lips. "Mmhm, I like it. I like _you_."

Paul leans in even closer— or was it Daryl that moved?— their faces inches away from each other and so close the hunter can feel Paul's breath faintly on his lips. Just a little closer, and their lips would brush. _Just a little more and he'll finally know the taste of the other man's lips. He can do it, make the first move, just a little bit closer and— _

Except Paul hesitates and pulls away ever so slightly again, and it takes Daryl more than a second to drift his attention back to his— beautiful, captivating, almost green— blue eyes. The man himself seems to regret moving, but he stands his ground.

What now.

"Wait, first I need to know if you—" Paul starts, before Daryl interrupts him.

"I do. Fuck, of course I do, Paul," he says a lot more earnest than he meant to sound, but no less honest. "You're the most annoying son of a bitch I've ever met, and I kinda like it."

The other fakes offense, though his eyes give away his glee. "Just kinda?"

But Daryl's patience runs thin and he longs for more, to finally touch Paul and pull him closer, and so he does exactly that.

Their first kiss is… awkward, to say the least. It's sloppy and overenthusiastic and the angles are too wrong, yet Paul still smiles into the kiss and chuckles when their noses bump clumsily, not seeming to mind any of it at all. He cups Daryl's cheek and breaks it away, looking at him almost in daze and so, so adoring.

Daryl smiles, almost coy and with his cheeks hot. "It's okay, I guess," he jokes.

And Paul laughs, and laughs, and laughs, pulling him back into a kiss that is nothing like the first. It's chaste instead of frantic, sweet instead of sloppy. Paul plays with his hair while Daryl holds him by the shirt, and something about it makes his chest fill with joy as they trade small pecks together never wanting to let go.

Everything he ever ached for yet never admitted.

He doesn't know how long they went like that, kissing and whispering untold things in the dark, all he remembers is falling asleep with an unashamed pure sense of joy and someone by his side, hand in hand, as they held each other in the dark.

…

Being with Paul isn't much different from before, while at the same time being a whole new world.

They start spending even more time together, and each time Paul is his same irritating, utterly endearing self, always trying to steal kisses or engage Daryl into a long rant about some book or another— now that they don't have to hide anything from each other and Daryl let that one thing slip, Paul's taken it as an invitation to talk even more about the subject.

Not that he minds, really, but he plays along anyway.

The two kiss, they go on runs, they kiss even more, they hunt together and then they make-out against the trees, taking any opportunity they can as a chance to be together, ignoring the rest of the world.

Only the stench of death that never leaves their skin and the walkers groaning in the distance to assure Daryl he's alive and it's not a dream.

It's not perfect; they have their ups and downs sometimes, moments where they butt heads and yell and fight. Times where Daryl gets too freaked out, words from past memories haunting his mind and years of prejudice not being unlearned in an instant, or where Paul takes a risk more dangerous than worth it outside the gate. Or where Daryl does it, too, and he's the scolded one instead— the two always end up in Hershel's cell one way or another, either being stitched up or there to help and hover.

But there's also moments where they just sit there in silence, with Paul's legs across his lap as they both read whatever books they've found for each other. Moments where they tease and laugh and love, making this grey world seem a lot brighter.

Moments where a run goes bad and they lose someone, and so they lay in silence that night finding solace in each other's arms.

And though they don't actually tell anyone about it— or Daryl doesn't, at least; he's seen Maggie looking at him after Paul and her have talked sometimes— they don't hide it, either. Neither man are too big on public displays of affection but it doesn't take long for the prison to realize they belong to each other, wholeheartedly.

Carol teases him something awful and Glenn gets revenge for all the times Daryl's said anything about him and Maggie, all while Rick laughs heartily and Paul shows no regret in his eyes with a mischievous smile that show he's entirely too amused at his pain.

Annoying, all of them, he swears. A huge pain in his ass.

Daryl wouldn't change a single thing.


End file.
